The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up instead.

In God's good time, Which does not always fall on Saturday When the world looks for wages.

God is the perfect poet.

Pippa's Song The year's at the spring The day's at the morn Morning's at seven, The Hill side's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing The snail's on the thorn God's in his heaven- All's right with the world

I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.

Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.

I know what I want and what I might gain, and yet, how profitless to know.